


Streetlight Sonata

by Rowantreeisme



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Post-Avengers (2012), Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 03:34:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13091559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rowantreeisme/pseuds/Rowantreeisme
Summary: Steve Rogers can't sleep. He follows the music.





	Streetlight Sonata

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lets_call_me_Lily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lets_call_me_Lily/gifts).



Steve Rogers couldn't sleep. 

It wasn't a problem, not really, not yet. He'd gone longer without sleep in the war, hiking for days and days through snowy forests, when it was more than just the lack of sleep, when it was also the lack of food, of warmth, of any kind of bed, when the only way to keep the cold out of your bones was to keep walking.

That had been easy, the repetitive rhythm of footstep after footstep, Steve at the front wearing a track through the snow so the others could follow easier, marching along behind him. The knowledge the there was a goal, an end, to the exhaustion. The fact that his men, his friends, his family, were behind him, laughing and joking and singing dirty songs with made-up words, stopping to drink icy water from frozen rivers and streams, crisper and cleaner than what came out of his taps in new york.

He knew, sitting on the side of his bed, still practically able to taste the crispness of fresh snow on his tongue, that if he wandered down to the common floor, someone else would be there, willing to talk and joke and watch a movie Steve hadn't watched yet, willing to help both of them drive the dreams out of their heads.

The problem was that sometimes, he didn't know if he wanted that. That sometimes, he'd wake up from an old memory, slices of his past, counting stars on the rooftop, looking up through the gaps in the trees at a sky that looked strung in glitter, the stars and constellations he knew, of course, but so many others that he had a hard time finding the same, embers from the campfire floating up, and up, untill they seemed to join the stars themselves.

Sometimes, all he could do was turn back into his pillow and sob because he'd woken up. Sometimes, in the dreams, he wouldn't stop running, wouldn't stop for anything because he knew, he knew there was somewhere he should be going back to and he'd wake up and be relieved that he hadn't left his home. 

Sometimes, he didn't know which world he wanted to be a dream, and sometimes, it was all he could do not to hate himself for that.

He knew, whoever he'd meet down there, Natasha or Clint or Thor or Bruce or Tony, would try to understand. That they wouldn't ask if he wanted to talk about it, that the only thing discussed would be a shared, knowing glance, and heckling over the chosen movie. Steve could see himself doing that so easily, accepting a hot chocolate from his friend, sitting on the couch and lying about a movie he'd already watched just to watch Tony rant and rave at the faulty science, or the bad effects, or the lack of plot, falling asleep with Tony's voice in his ear to ground him in the present. 

He wasn't sure he could handle that right now, pretending everything was alright, pretending that that was one of the only ways he could fall asleep, these days, in the presence of his friends because anything else would send him hurtling back 70 years

There was snow falling outside his window, and all Steve could do was stare, at the softly-falling flakes blanketing New York, at the paths worn into the streets by cars still moving at this hour, at the orange glow of the city turned golden by the white. 

He hadn't managed any sleep so far tonight, either, the third in a row by now, and a glance at the clock told him that managing any at all would be a long shot. 

It wasn't a problem. The exhausted tension stringing him up like a spring, tight and coiled in his chest, in his neck and shoulders, drawing his jaw tight near to the point of pain, was far less painful than anything he would see when he closed his eyes.

It wasn't.

Steve got up and left his room. Maybe a run would do him some good.

 

Steve let his feet carry him out of his room, towards the exit, trying not to think about anything at all. In the stairwell, Steve stopped, hand on the bannister and foot held frozen over the first step.

He could hear music, so quiet that he had thought he'd imagined it, at first. 

It was coming from above him, and without another thought, Steve abandoned any ideas he had about a run, and started following the music. 

As he climbed, it got louder, and Steve could recognize that it was piano music, now, a song he didn't recognize, something melodic and slow, almost a waltz. He followed the music to a floor he'd been to many times, visiting the library and Tony's massive stock of books, but kept walking, past the library and down the hall to a room he hadn't visited before.

The door was open, and there weren't any lights on inside, just the reflected glow of city lights off snow spilling out of the door along with the music.

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, when he stepped inside the room, socked feet silent on the floor, but Tony, seated at a grand piano facing the windows, was not it. Still, Steve would be hard-pressed to think of anything that he would rather have found.

Steve stepped closer, into the room properly, closed his eyes, and sighed. It felt like letting something inside him loose, letting go of a taut rope, breathing out the ice in his lungs, and he felt more at peace than he had in weeks, maybe even months. Like right then, he could settle in to sleep and know with a certainty where he would be when he closed his eyes. Where he wanted to be when he woke up. 

Of course, it was Tony. Of course, this music which was somehow exactly what Steve needed to hear in that moment, was from Tony. Was being created by Tony. 

For a minute, Steve just... stood, in the open doorway, and listened. Tried to find the pattern in the rhythm of Tony's hands on the keys, tried to memorize the way he looked, eyes closed and cast in moonlight, seated at a grand piano that Steve hadn't known he owned, and let the music banish the ice from his bones.

He stepped further in, until he was standing just behind and to the left of Tony, and could see that the other man's eyes were closed, eyelashes dark on his cheeks, face soft and open like Steve only rarely got to see, and in that moment, he was the most beautiful thing Steve had ever seen.

When his eyes opened, he was smiling, he knew he was smiling because it hurt, it hurt to twist his lips up into something genuine after so long of... of not, of faking it for his friends and SHIELD and the barista at the coffee shop across the street, of just... not, and at some point, he'd thought that maybe, just maybe, he'd forgotten how to.

Except he hadn't, had he? Because he was smiling, now, tired and strung-out and anxious as he was, he was smiling. Because Tony was playing the piano, and it wasn’t for him, it wasn’t  _ because _ of him, but it felt like a gift all the same. 

So, he just stood, in the middle of the room, swaying in time to the music with his eyes closed and a dopey smile on his face. Right up until the music stopped, the silence jarring where the music had cut off in the middle of a phrase, frayed and torn and broken.

Steve’s eyes snapped open, and nearly stumbled backwards when he saw Tony staring at him, startled, then confused, before settling on a blank mask, and he turned to close the keyboard lid. “Didn’t mean to wake anyone up with this. I’ll-”

“Please don’t,” Steve said, stepping forwards, reaching his hand out, then back, curling it loose at his side like he wanted to hold on to something, “It’s- you’re very good.” Steve said, didn’t know what else he could say, just wanted that awful, awful expression off Tony’s face. 

Tony’s mask cracked in half with surprise, and he froze, but didn’t move to cover the keys, just sat, and stared at Steve, something unreadable on his face. 

“You don’t have to.” Steve said, trying to keep his voice steady, “But, it’s nice. Your playing. It’s nice.” He flushed, a little bit, at how he was tripping over his words, but he felt like he had to say it.

Tony blinked at him, then sighed and scooted sideways on the piano bench, and patted the space he left. 

Suddenly breathless, all Steve could do was take the step forewards towards Tony, and sit beside him on the bench. “I always thought you might play.” Steve said, and he didn’t know why, he just felt like he should break the silence.

Tony didn’t jump, exactly, but he did go pause momentarily in a way that suggested he was surprised, before resting his hands on the keys and starting to play again. 

Steve could only watch. “Didn’t think you would ever have had the patience to sit and learn when I first met you, though.”

He wondered if the easy way Tony used his hands, the grace and fluidity in the way he moved them, was natural, or if he’d learned. “My mother taught me.” Tony said, and Steve looked up, surprised that Tony had offered even that little scrap of information, at the same time that Tony looked down, away from Steve’s gaze, smiling softly at some half-remembered scene. “Even though Howard didn’t approve, she still sat me down in front of the piano every chance she could.” 

“She sounds like an amazing woman.” Steve whispered, remembered his own mother, kind and so, so strong, tried to match Maria Stark’s face, in his head, to a less formal memory than the pictures he’d seen of her showed.

Tony smiled, still looking down. “Yeah. She was.” The words hung on the air for a moment, carried by the music in the still air, seeming to match to the pounding at his ears to the beat of his own tripping, fumbling heart. “No one really knows. About who she was outside of the public eye.” Tony said, and the rhythm of the music changed. 

Steve didn’t say a word, kept his silence for whatever Tony was trying to say, let Tony fill it with his music and his words. 

“She was brilliant, you know? Just as smart as Howard was and no one ever saw. Not really. She taught me how to code. How to see the patterns in it, like the repeating melodies in a song.” Tony said softly, still smiling at something Steve wished he could see, shook his head a little, and the espression melted like the stray snow that hit the window. “And no one knows that. Just how much she gave me. Everyone thinks-” 

“That it was Howard.” Steve finished, not able to meet Tony’s eyes, stared at his hands, instead. Strong, but so, so graceful, knowing just how much pressure to put on a key to draw out the sweetest sound, tried, for a second, to hear the music how Tony might be hearing it, patterns and refrains overlapping and interweaving like a blanket. 

Tony let out a huff of breath, a little humorous, a little sad, but mostly just bitter. “Yeah. No one even looks anywhere near close enough at my mom to even begin to think that maybe, I’m not just a carbon-copy of my father.” 

Steve felt a spike of shame at that, and hunched over on himself without really meaning to. “You’re not. I- I know that, now. You’re not.” Steve said, the words trying to blend together in his throat. The problem had never been that Tony was too much like Howard. The problem had always been that he’d been too much of someone else, too much like Bucky, too much like Peggy, whip-quick humor and utterly fearless when it came to trying to fight people they really ought not to be fighting.

He could feel Tony looking at him side-long. “I know. I know that now. You don’t have to explain.” He said, and the music slowed, just a little, the notes sticking to each other like over-sweet honey. 

“I’m still sorry.” Steve whispered. 

“I know.” Tony responded, just as softly. “I just… she deserved so much better than what she got. She deserved a chance for other people to see her as she  _ was _ , not just as Howard’s wife or the hostess. She maybe wasn’t the best mother but she was  _ mine. _ and at least she  _ tried _ .”

Tony was staring at the keys, now, not playing, just looking at something a thousand miles away. His eyes were suspiciously shiny, but Steve knew better to comment on it. Steve scooted over, near enough that he could just brush Tony’s shoulder, his knee, with his own. Far enough that Tony could ignore him, if he wanted.

Tony instantly leaned over, further into Steve, and seemed to sag as if someone had cut the strings holding him up. “I don’t even know if she wanted kids.” He admitted. “If this was what she’d wanted with her life. If it wasn’t,” Tony sighed, “Well, she was good at that, too. People. Making them feel like they were the center of the universe, being a different person for everyone she had to talk money out of. If it hadn’t been-”

Tony shifted, again, and Steve brought his arm up and around Tony’s shoulder, holding him in a loose side hug. 

“I don’t think she would’ve let me know.” Tony finished.

Steve hummed, and Tony didn’t say anything else, seemed content to just sit with Steve, leaning on each other in the dark of the room. “Thank you. For telling me.” Steve said, finally, because he felt like he had to. 

“Thank you for listening.” Tony replied, not even a beat after, and turned his head to grin, small and soft, at Steve.

 


End file.
